Death in Saratoga Springs (5 page)

Crawford's expression became inscrutable. Something had come into his head that claimed his full attention. He smiled and brought their meeting to a rapid close. “I'll settle with Mr. Prescott for your expenses and stipend. Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I'll be happy to use your services on another occasion.”

As she stepped out onto the street, Pamela sensed strongly that she had been used in a complicated chess game between the Crawfords and Crake. It was far from over.

 

Pamela put a sign in her window facing Union Square, saying in large letters that she accepted Gilpin's terms. From behind the curtains she watched people passing by. Many glanced at the sign. It was impossible to detect who were the kidnappers. Finally, she gave up and waited anxiously. In her mind she saw Francesca, bound and gagged in a dark, windowless room. Pamela tried to banish the thought. Finally, she distracted herself with vigorous housecleaning.

At about ten o'clock in the evening, the bell rang and Francesca appeared in the doorway, looking a little bewildered, but otherwise none the worse for her experience in New York's underworld. Relieved, Pamela embraced her. They sat down at a table and Francesca began her story.

“On my way home from school two men pulled me off the sidewalk and into a coach. They tied me up and blindfolded me, drove to a foul-smelling place, and carried me downstairs into a room.”

“Did they harm you?” asked Pamela anxiously.

“No, they only pricked my finger. A woman came into the room and asked how I was. I said I was hungry. She fed me bread and cheese, and took me to the bathroom.”

“Could you hear any conversation or any sounds at all?”

Her brow creased with the effort to recall. “No, only a faint clanging of a streetcar bell. I don't know how much time passed. Then the same two men picked me up and drove me away. Finally, one of them untied me and removed the blindfold. We were parked on a side street near Union Square. The other man held a knife to my throat and said, ‘Go home. If you call out for help, we'll kill you in the street.' It was dark. I walked as fast as I could and am glad to be home.”

She gazed at Pamela with a confused expression on her face. “Why did the men kidnap me?”

Pamela briefly explained the search for Ruth Colt. “We think she was murdered. Her killer feared we might discover him and hired someone to take you as a hostage. He ordered us to end the investigation or you would be killed. We couldn't risk your life, so we did as he said. Then he released you. We're relieved to have you back safely.”

While Pamela served hot chocolate and buttered bread, Francesca asked, “Couldn't the police have arrested the killer?”

Pamela hesitated to reply. She usually shielded Francesca from the seamy side of life—the girl already knew that only too well. Their conversations focused on schoolwork, music, and art.

“In a word, Francesca, the police work for him. That's how business is sometimes done in New York these days. There's talk of reform. I'm hopeful that things will get better, but not just yet.”

“What am I to do?” she complained, stirring the chocolate. “Hide out here in the apartment all day and night?”

“No, you will go to school as usual. As a precaution, I'll arrange for a companion to walk with you. Frankly, I think your kidnapper will keep his side of the bargain. He's basically a businessman of sorts and needs to appear reliable.”

Francesca seemed satisfied and drank her chocolate with relish. When they were clearing the table, she asked Pamela, “What shall I do during the summer? I really want to get away from New York.”

“I've been thinking about that, Francesca. How would you like to work in Saratoga Springs at the Grand Union Hotel? You would be among rich, fashionable people and hear music all day long. My clients at St. Barnabas Mission, the Metzgers, recently got summer jobs there. The hotel is expecting a busy season, despite the country's depression. Would you care to be a chambermaid?”

Francesca's eyes widened at the thought. “I'd love to.”

“Then I'll write to the management.”

Saratoga Springs, New York
Friday, July 6, 1894

 

F
rancesca Ricci, now a chambermaid with a month's experience at the Grand Union Hotel, knocked on the captain's door. No response. She cautiously stepped into an entrance hall. “Anyone here?” she called out. Late in the afternoon, most guests would be in the dining room. It was a good time to empty wastebaskets and ashtrays, and air out the rooms before the guests returned. “Is that you, Francesca?” came a man's deep voice from the bedroom.

“Yes,” she timidly replied. A frisson of fear shook her. She really wasn't comfortable with Captain Crake. Some days he was a proper gentleman, other times he behaved more like the devil himself. Francesca was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a sick old man with arthritis and other ailments, and obviously in pain.

His beautiful young wife was more of an aggravation than a help to him. No wonder that he sought comfort with chambermaids. Most tried to avoid him. It fell to Francesca, the most recent among them, to clean his rooms. Early on, he had heard her sing. Francesca had made it clear that she would sing for him only if he'd keep his hands off her. As a pretty girl from Mulberry Bend in the slums of New York, she had learned how to protect herself. Crake seemed to respect her.

“I was taking a nap,” Crake shouted through the door. “Do your work. I'll come out when you're ready to sing me a song.”

Francesca loved popular American songs, as well as her native Italian. She dreamed that one day she'd sing in concert halls and become rich and famous. Her friends on Mulberry Bend used to say that wouldn't happen, but Francesca believed in miracles. One might happen to her. A rich gentleman like Captain Crake might like her songs enough to promote her.

She finished her chores and called out, “Cleaning's done, Captain. It's time for a song.”

He came out of his room, dressed in fine clothes for the evening. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, big-chested man and rough in his ways. They said he was a hero in the war and a successful businessman afterward. Now he was rich but couldn't enjoy life. She sometimes felt sorry for him.

“What do you have to offer tonight?” he asked, settling into a chair. “Cheer me up.”

“Then I'll sing ‘Funiculì, Funiculà,' a popular song from Naples about the cable cars that go up and down Mount Vesuvius, filled with sightseers in a holiday spirit.” She cleared her throat and launched into a verse of the Italian original, waving her arms and dancing to the lively rhythm. Without missing a beat she switched to the English version, then closed with the refrain:

Crake chuckled. “I like your spirit, girl. You sound like Italians in my meatpacking plants. They sing a lot. I hire them right off the boat. They work hard, don't complain about the low pay or hard conditions in the plants.”

She resented his attitude toward her people, but she didn't complain. She sang a couple of his favorite sentimental songs, then bowed. She could sense when it was time for her to leave. Music seemed to soften his hard heart. He would soon want a woman's comfort.

He thanked her, then pulled from his pocket a simple gold bracelet and handed it to her.

“Here, this is for pleasing an old man. A month ago, I gave the bracelet to my wife, but she doesn't enjoy wearing it—says it looks cheap. She wants fancy jewelry.”

“Thank you so much, but I couldn't accept it. I sing simply to please you.”

His voice filled with menace. “But I insist.”

Fear welled up in her. She couldn't bring herself to say no. She took the bracelet, murmured her gratitude, and hurried from the room.

 

Crake rose from his chair, took a deep breath, and shuffled to the liquor cabinet. Alcohol was bad for his kidneys, said his doctor. Crake nonetheless poured a shot of whiskey and drank it in one gulp. That girl left just in time, he said to himself. In another minute, I'd have been on top of her.

He put away the bottle. He was getting hungry. His wife would linger in the dining room with friends. Meanwhile he would go to the barroom for roast beef on rye with horseradish and a pint of beer. That would put him in a good mood for the dance tonight. Virtually a cripple, he would have to sit for hours and watch his wife turn her charm on lusty young men. A dozen or more would line up to dance with her. Brazen whore!

Tonight's dance was held in the hotel ballroom and was called a “hop,” from the typical step of the popular German schottische. The dress code was simpler than for the more formal balls. Crake entered the ballroom in a tan summer suit with a brown tie. Rachel was at his side in a light blue silk gown, a string of pearls around her neck, and a small diamond tiara on her blond head. She looked like a queen—a spoiled one, he thought.

They walked about the room, nodding to familiar faces and chatting with acquaintances. As the musicians mounted the podium and prepared their instruments, Crake took a seat among the spectators, most of them elderly and decrepit like him. At the far end of the room, one of the largest in the country, an enormous painting,
The Genius of America,
covered the wall. Crake couldn't judge its artistic merits, or even make out most of its details. Someone told him that George Washington was in the picture along with naked black people being lifted up out of slavery. Crake recalled that he had done some of that lifting in the South during the war—mostly wasted effort. Blacks down there were little better off now than before.

The music director announced the first dance: a schottische. Robert Shaw approached and asked Rachel for the dance. She turned to Crake and got his grudging approval. She and her partner joined the dancers and began hopping about, light on their feet and synchronized with the caller.

Crake looked on, sourly, and reflected on Shaw's appeal to women. To give the devil his due, he was a handsome, engaging British gentleman in his forties, who gave fencing lessons in athletic clubs and earned a living in gambling dens. “He knew Rachel before I did,” muttered Crake to himself, “and still charms her.”

A waltz followed the schottische. Rachel's new partner was a callow Harvard student who had tippled to bolster his self-confidence. After the waltz came another change of partners and another schottische. And so it went throughout the evening with occasional pauses for refreshment.

At the halfway point, brimming with vitality, Rachel rejoined Crake. Wracked with pain and bored, he told her, “We'll go back to our rooms now. I'm tired and in pain.”

“No, please!” She pouted. “There are more dances to come, and afterward I was hoping to go to Canfield's Casino. But I'll need an escort to get in, as well as to gamble. Won't you go with me?”

“You know I love to gamble, especially at the casino where my credit is good and the stakes are high, but I just can't do it tonight. The arthritis is getting worse. In less than an hour I won't be able to bear the pain.”

“Would it be all right, then, if Rob were my escort?”

Crake thought, if he refused, she would pout all night or probably sneak out with the rascal anyway. “I don't mind,” he muttered. She kissed him on the cheek and skipped back to the dance floor and Robert Shaw.

Crake followed her with narrowed eyes. Before he left the ballroom, he hired a spy to keep an eye on her. She would soon get a big surprise.

Saturday, July 7

 

A
n hour after sunrise, Crake awoke, stiff and sore, keenly mindful of his sixty-plus years. Getting up was painful. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled up a small table, and rang the bell. The smell of coffee had already wafted into the room.

“Just a minute, I'm coming.” The voice from the kitchen had a pleasing accent.

It was Swedish. He knew that much about Birgitta. She also had strong fingers that worked miracles on his aging body, at least for a few hours. That was better than nothing.

As promised, she entered the room with a tray of coffee, buttered toast, and strawberry preserves. Her thick blond hair hung braided down to her waist. Her eyes were light blue, her gaze steady and direct, and her smile friendly. He couldn't play games with her as he did with other maids, though she was comely enough. She kept him at a proper distance. And that was just fine as long as she made him feel better.

There was an extra cup on the tray. “Join me, Birgitta,” he said. “We'll talk about my schedule for the day.”

She pulled up a chair, poured coffee for herself, and they toasted each other.

“Has my wife come back?” he asked, keeping his voice level. He glanced at a framed wedding photo on the wall. He was already a gray haired man looking uncomfortable in a black frock coat, stiff collar, and white tie. She was petite, much younger, and enjoying herself in a white satin gown.

“Not yet,” Birgitta replied, her voice as level as his.

Last night, Rachel had not returned from Canfield's Casino. So, where was she? Perhaps still at the casino. Canfield allowed high-stakes gambling through the night. Shaw had little money or credit, but he could play on her behalf with her husband's credit. The spy would soon come with a report.

“To hell with her,” said Crake with feeling. “Give me the morning massage. Then we'll go to the spring in Congress Park for the water.”

He finished the coffee, and she took away the tray. While she was in the kitchen, he removed his nightclothes, wrapped a towel around his loins, and lay facedown on the bed. She soon returned, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and began to rub his body. Her strokes began lightly, tingling the skin. She gradually went deeper, relaxing the cramped muscles, loosening the stiff joints. She was soon working in rhythms that seemed to reach into his soul.

He let his distressing cares ebb away: first to go was his unfaithful wife, and second, Robert Shaw, her paramour. And he let loose the ungrateful, troublesome workers at his New York meatpacking plants, and the backbiters and competitors envious of his power and wealth. Then went the horrid memories of the war in the South, especially the gruesome, painful deaths of his comrades. The last to leave were the bitter years he had endured as a youth under the fist of his harsh, abusive father on their hardscrabble Pennsylvania farm. An image of his mother came up as well, cowering in the kitchen while his father raged against her, beat her, or showered her with contempt.

The hour passed swiftly. “You should feel better now,” she said. “You may wash and shave and dress for the morning. Call if you need help with your shoes.”

At first, it had seemed strange to have a female valet. Yet, he'd come to like it. In a leap of fantasy, he dared to think he'd have been better off if he had married her rather than Rachel. He scolded himself. “I must be growing soft in the head.”

 

In the pavilion at the spring, Birgitta found a table, and a trim, young black boy brought glasses of water. Crake sniffed. For years he'd started the day with a shot of whiskey and a beer. This spring water tasted of sulfur, but his doctor said it was good for his failing kidneys. His eyesight was also weak. He sighed softly. He was only a few years past sixty and he was falling apart. To come here, Birgitta had to help him over rough patches in the road and up and down stairs.

Nonetheless, he was enjoying the cool morning breezes and the low murmur of conversation around him. Birgitta had brought along a New York newspaper and read interesting bits to him. Suddenly, she stopped.

Crake asked, “What's going on?”

“Your wife and Mr. Shaw have just arrived. They're coming toward us.”

A surge of anger raced through Crake's body. Before coming to the spring, he heard from his spy that Rachel and Shaw had left the casino at midnight and spent the early-morning hours in a notorious boardinghouse in the town.

As the villains drew near, Crake gripped his cane as if about to strike. Birgitta laid a calming hand on his arm. “Jed,” she whispered urgently, “let them be. Confront them in private.”

He relaxed his grip on the cane and snarled under his breath, “Right. I'll deal with them later.”

“Well!” exclaimed Rachel, the word slurred from fatigue or alcohol, or both. “Look who's here, the old soldier and his faithful nurse. Rob and I have good news. We beat the house last night and walked away with over twenty thousand dollars. Like a good sport, Canfield congratulated us.”

Shaw added, “We played poker past dawn.”

“You must be exhausted and famished,” said Crake dryly.

“A little tired,” said Rachel with a pout. “But we've had a champagne breakfast at the Phila Street Café along with other gay night birds. It was really quite festive there.”

“We can speak more about your triumph later. Are you going back to the hotel?”

“Yes, I want Birgitta to give me a massage and rub the evening's fatigue away. Then I'll take a nap.” She cast a coy glance at the maid. “I see she's been keeping you company, Jed. Aren't you fortunate to have her?”

Crake replied with a curt nod. He felt a powerful urge to strike out with his fist and smash her lying teeth into her empty skull. He turned to Birgitta. “Let's go.”

 

In the hotel's foyer, Crake said to the maid, “Go to the cottage and take care of Mrs. Crake. I'll distract myself elsewhere.” The short fuse to his temper was burning dangerously low.

To cool down, he went to the hotel's barroom for beer and dim-witted conversation with its patrons, some of them drink-befuddled even before noon. Their only topic these days was baseball and the prowess of the New York Giants. In a few weeks they would chatter on about the Saratoga track, the thoroughbred horses, and which one would win the Travers Cup.

The beer worked its magic. Feeling better, he moved from the bar to the billiards room. It was quiet and mostly deserted this time of day. While idly knocking the cue ball around the table, he reflected again on his wife, Rachel. When he married her four years ago, he could hardly have expected her to become virtuous. After all, he had picked her up in a brothel. She was a beautiful, lively creature. Until recently, she had added spice and joy to his life.

Then Shaw appeared. At first, she called him a dear friend. For months they carried on like brother and sister. He now realized that, while he was in Georgia, they became lovers. Their affair would soon reach the scandalmongers and make him look foolish, a cuckolded husband. “That must stop,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He hit the cue ball with a powerful blow. It flew over the edge of the table, bounced across the marble floor the length of the room, and crashed into the opposite wall. The other players turned and stared at him. He called out, “Sorry,” laid down the cue stick, and left the room.

 

He needed to do something to occupy his mind. An old business acquaintance from New York had recently become the hotel's food manager. It could be useful to renew ties with him. Crake's company sold tons of meat to the Grand Union Hotel.

The new manager welcomed Crake into his office and a business conversation ensued. Finally, he said to Crake, “I'd be happy to show you the new equipment in our meat room.” They took the elevator to the basement, where meat cutters were busy with their knives.

“We've installed the latest improvements in electric lighting,” said the manager. “The cutting room used to be a dark place. Now it's as bright as day. At the same time, we've also bought the highest quality of steel knives. Since then, we've had far fewer accidents.”

The manager pointed to one of the meat cutters at work on a side of beef. “The blade of his new boning knife takes the sharpest edge in the business. He'll show it to you.”

The meat cutter turned around, the bloody knife in his hand, and locked eyes with Crake. They both started. Crake took a step back. The meat cutter was Karl Metzger, the burly, scowling German who once worked in Crake's meatpacking plants. They exchanged hostile looks. For a brief moment, a tense silence fell over the men. Then Metzger slowly lowered the knife, as if reluctantly, and returned to his work.

As they left the basement, Crake said to the manager, “That German, Metzger, is a major troublemaker. He led the union in a strike that nearly ruined my business. You must get rid of him immediately.”

“I'm grateful for your advice,” said the manager, suddenly concerned. “Up to now, I've had no problems with Metzger. He's a skillful meat cutter and well-liked by the others. But I'll consider carefully what you've said before going to Mr. Wooley, the proprietor.”

 

Still searching for a way to pass the time and shaken by his encounter with the German meat cutter, Crake wandered out of the hotel onto Broadway. At midafternoon, the July sun made a promenade uncomfortable even under the street's arcade of tall elm trees. When Crake saw the sign for Mitchell's Saloon, he also realized he was thirsty again. At the long mahogany bar, he drank a couple of glasses of beer, then beckoned the barman.

“Any games going on in there?” Crake eyed a door at the rear of the room.

The barman studied Crake. “You don't look like one of those ‘reformers' who want to close us down.”

“I take that as a compliment,” said Crake. “I'm a gambling man. The mayor approves of me.” Crake was thinking of Mr. Caleb Mitchell, popular mayor of Saratoga Springs, who owned the saloon and the profitable gambling den in the back room.

The barman smiled broadly. “His excellency is hard at work in there. Why don't you see what he has to offer?”

When Crake walked into the den, Mitchell was observing a crowd of men at a roulette wheel. His eyes immediately caught Crake in a penetrating glance and mouthed a welcome. Crake was soon betting at the wheel. He lost a few dollars and was about to try his luck at poker when Robert Shaw walked in with a beer and sat by himself.

For a moment they stared at each other. Shaw smirked. Crake's anger flared up. He approached Shaw and in a quiet, measured voice said, “Last night, you slept with my wife.” He leaned forward and hissed, “I'll make you pay. You'll be a dead man before the end of summer.”

Shaw sipped from his glass and gazed at Crake with contempt.

As Crake stalked out of the room, he muttered “insolent bastard” and made a mental note to hire Jimmy Gilpin for the job.

 

For an hour, he paced back and forth in the hotel garden, mulling over his marriage to Rachel. Then his knees began to pain him. By the time he returned to their cottage, he was in a cold fury, his mind made up. He burst into her room. Dressed for dinner in a shimmering red silk gown, she was standing before the mirror and inspecting her coiffure. Birgitta was at her side looking on. She glanced at Crake, shook her head, and mouthed, “No!”

For a few moments he mastered his temper and said levelly, “Miss Mattsson, please wait in the parlor. I'll speak to you later. Now I have something to say to my wife.”

The maid averted her eyes and walked quickly from the room. Crake closed the door and strode up to his wife. She stood glued to the floor, eyes wide with fear. She flashed a nervous, childlike smile at him.

“Whore!” he shouted and slapped her so hard that she fell back against the mirror and sent it swinging wildly. “For appearance's sake, we shall dine together and attend this evening's concert. After a few more days of pretending marital bliss, we'll return to New York and consider what to do with our marriage. At the least, I'll remove you from among the beneficiaries of my will.”

Crake was swaying and breathing heavily. Gradually, his anger subsided. He muttered, “I apologize for losing my temper and striking you.” He left the room and found the maid in the parlor, tight lipped and pale. As he approached, she seemed to tremble. She had heard everything.

Crake said, “I acted like a brute. Go to Mrs. Crake and repair the damage. At five, we'll leave for dinner. You will then be free for the rest of the day. Meanwhile, I'll collect my wits and finish some legal business.” Crake fixed her in a taut gaze. “I trust you'll say nothing about this incident.”

 

Early that evening, as the orchestra was settling into its chairs, Crake and his wife entered the hotel's garden. At dinner, his violent outburst in the cottage was put behind them, if not forgotten. He walked slowly with a cane, looking stolidly ahead, lines of pain etched on his face. She forced a sweet smile, fanned her face briskly, and nodded to acquaintances left and right.

The musicians tuned their instruments. This evening's conductor, the cellist Victor Herbert, stepped up onto the podium and a hush came over the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we have a special request for the popular song ‘Marching Through Georgia.' This is the thirtieth year since General Sherman's glorious campaign during the late war. With us tonight is one of its brave veterans, Captain Jed Crake.”

The crowd turned toward the captain and applauded.

He waved his hand, but he didn't smile. This attention was unexpected and unwelcome. After the war, he had polished his reputation for heroism and had never been challenged. But recently, a former comrade and he had a falling out. Since then, the comrade had grown embittered and had insinuated that Crake's military record had a dark side. Crake now preferred less limelight.